


Cut-off Point

by Isagel



Category: White Collar
Genre: Bondage, Dominance, Longing, Multi, Ownership, Polyamory, Submission, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4457612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years is a long time. And then it ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut-off Point

**Author's Note:**

> Written in season 1, but not previously posted to the AO3.

They cut the anklet the last Friday in August. Technically, there are nine days left on Neal’s four-year sentence, but they’ve just shut down a major counterfeiting ring and Peter would rather have the whole thing over with before they catch another case. So he calls it time off for good behavior and schedules the meeting for the end of the week.

They have dinner together at the house the night before, he and Elizabeth and Neal. Elizabeth makes that thing with lamb that Neal is crazy for and Peter has always found a bit over-complicated, and Neal is resolutely charming. There’s an edge of desperation to all their talking and laughter that reminds Peter of his last night with his high school buddies before he went off to college, of the last night before his wedding to Elizabeth: that moment of precarious balance right before the rollercoaster drops and sling-shots you into something new. It’s possible he drinks a lot more than he should.

As if by silent agreement, no one asks what Neal will do next. He already knows what options Peter can give him; if he has made any plans he wants to share, that’s up to him.

The paperwork lies waiting for them on Peter's desk the next morning, a slim folder with the FBI logo printed on the front. Neal's eyes lock onto it the moment they step into the office. He stays standing, hands in his pockets. The line of his body in the vintage suit looks like a facsimile of his usual fluid grace. Peter closes the door behind them and pulls the blinds shut. He circles Neal and the desk; doesn't sit down, either.

"So," he says, and flips the folder open. "All you gotta do is sign on the dotted line, and you're a free man."

He spins the papers around on the smooth surface of the desk, lets Neal see his own signature, already there at the bottom of the page, along with the signatures of people from half a dozen government agencies, making it all official. 

Neal glances up through his lashes, gives him one of his more dazzling smiles. It’s frayed at the edges by something like nervousness.

"Easier than last time, then," he says.

Peter nods, picks a pen from the stand on the desk and places it on the release form. 

"Don't even have to grow a beard," he says.

Neal huffs, a small breath of laughter, and takes up the pen. 

"Thank God. The Charles Manson look does not go with the Devore."

He bends over the desk and scribbles his name beneath Peter's, a quick scrawl in a handwriting that matches his legitimate driver's license. For a crazy fraction of a second, Peter wants to reach out and stop his hand, but Neal is already flipping the folder closed. Placing the pen neatly on top of it.

Peter reaches for his desk-drawer instead, for the shears he’s got waiting there. They feel clumsy and uncomfortable in his hand. 

Neal’s gaze catches on them, and he visibly swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the perfect knot of his slim black tie, but he doesn’t move.

Peter tilts his head in the direction of his ankle.

“You want that off or not?” It comes out gruff and impatient.

Neal shifts instantly, turning so he can put his foot up on the visitor’s chair on his side of the desk, but he keeps his eyes on the scissors. The chair rolls just a little, extending the angle of his bent leg. He looks exposed, vulnerable, and Peter wants… 

He wants a lot of things that aren’t what’s about to happen.

“You’ve never done that yourself before,” Neal says. His voice is oddly flat, carefully washed out.

“It was never going to stay off before,” Peter says.

He steps close, and leans down over Neal’s leg. He’s never touched the anklet in place, never felt how the plastic slides over the silk-blend of Neal’s sock. The fit isn’t tight, and it’s easy for him to push two fingers beneath the strap, pulling it safely away from Neal’s body to make room for the shears. Above him, he can hear Neal’s breathing, faster than it should be. He imagines he can feel Neal’s pulse beat on the inside of his ankle, against the backs of his fingers. He puts the shears to the plastic and looks up. Neal’s eyes are very wide, their blue so pale they’re almost colorless. Peter’s chest tightens, the moment stretching his lungs thin, but then Neal blinks, his head dipping down in a near-imperceptible nod, and Peter makes the cut.

The anklet falls away from his fingers, from Neal’s body, tumbling to the floor with a dull clatter. They both straighten under cover of the noise, Neal bringing his foot down from the chair, Peter setting the shears down on the desk, next to the pen on top of the folder.

“Peter,” Neal says, low and unusually serious, pulling Peter’s gaze back on him. Neal puts his hand out between them. “Those would have been a long four years in prison. Thank you for giving me the chance to do this instead.”

“I just hope you learned something from it,” Peter says, taking Neal’s hand. It’s a handshake, but they’re standing too close together for it not to be awkward, and it isn’t enough. He drags Neal in, wrapping his other arm around his shoulder, his hand closing over the back of Neal’s neck. Neal makes a soft noise of surprise, and his arm comes up around Peter’s waist, his palm flat against Peter’s spine. Peter turns his face in, against the thick waves of Neal’s hair, and closes his eyes. He’s holding Neal’s neck so hard he thinks there might be bruising, but his fingers don’t seem to want to ease up.

Neal’s breath is warm and a little shaky against the side of his throat, just above the collar of his shirt.

“I always pay attention in class, you know,” he says. 

As he stands in the doorway to his office a few minutes later, watching Neal make his way through the bullpen towards the elevators, Peter hopes to God that’s really true.

That night, the light is still on in the dining room when he gets home. El has her laptop set up on the table, but she turns away from the screen towards the door the moment he steps in the room. Her eyes skid past him, to the empty space behind him, and then she is on her feet, is in his arms.

“Oh, honey,” she says, her cheek against his chest. “We sort of said goodbye last night, but I still didn’t think… I still thought he would come home with you.”

Peter strokes her hair down along the curve of her head, smooth, familiar motions of his fingers that are perhaps more about calming himself than her.

“He can go wherever he wants to, now,” he says. “He can go wherever he wants.”

* * *

In September, he woos Diana back to the white collar unit from where she’s been lurking in the Phoenix field office. Or, well, considering that she secured the confession of a drug kingpin who had been on the most-wanted list for over a decade, and solved that Burden kidnapping case that was all over the media, ‘lurking’ may not be the word he’s looking for, and admittedly most of the wooing was done by the Mount Sinai neurologist she’s come back to New York to move in with (Theresa is all legs and curves and Rhodes scholar IQ, and when Diana brings her over for dinner, Elizabeth keeps looking at him like she can see exactly what he’s thinking and the thought is endlessly amusing.), but it’s good, having her back. She was always one of his favorites (He’s told Elizabeth more than once that Jones will run the unit one day, but Diana could run the Bureau.), and her brains and wits keep the rooms from feeling empty, keep him from turning around in the conference room and expecting to see a team member who isn’t there. Or, at least, keeps him from doing that too often.

"So how's Caffrey doing," she asks him one night, "now he's off the leash?"

They're alone in the surveillance van, waiting for their suspect to make a move that will lead them to the stolen mediaeval manuscript they're looking for.

"I wouldn't know,“ Peter says. “Haven't seen him since we cut him loose."

Diana swivels in her chair, looking at him instead of at her screen. Peter studiously keeps his eyes on the monitor that shows the audio graph from the bug they've planted. Curves in red and blue rise and fall as the suspect talks to his mother on the phone about his uncle Jimmy’s birthday; the conversation is a low susurration in the earphones around Peter’s neck. 

"Really?" Diana says. "I always figured the leash wasn't much more than a formality with you two."

Peter shrugs, shifting position. His muscles are so tense that the motion hurts, a grinding pain that goes down to the bone.

"I guess he figured differently."

At the edge of his vision, he sees Diana watching him for a long time before she turns back to her video feed.

* * *

In November, he and Elizabeth spend a week in the Caribbean, as they've done every year since that first time when Neal helped him build a fake beach on June's roof. They walk hand in hand along the ocean, bare feet passing in and out of the surf, midnight water almost cool against their skin, and he finds grains of sand in the creases beneath Elizabeth's breasts when he makes love to her, stretched out on their bed in late morning sunlight, the sweat pooling at the hollow of her throat tasting like the breeze that reaches through the curtains. 

They go out to dinner, and there is a band playing, people moving on the dance floor between the tables in the open air. Elizabeth slides out of her seat as she puts her dessert fork down, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him with her into the mass of swaying couples. She's beautiful, laughing, her tanned shoulders moving gracefully with the music when she spins in his arms. Peter is fairly sure he doesn't embarrass her, but he also knows he is no match for her, adequate where she excels. If he checked where Neal is, maybe he could have him come over, let him cut in. Neal is every bit El's equal in this, and there's something deeply satisfying in stepping back and watching the world watch them glitter, both of them radiant in each other's presence. It's something that makes them all happy. 

It takes only a second or two for the ridiculous thought to run through his head - a bar of the music, a twist of El's body beneath his arm, her skirt flaring out in a wheel of electric blue - and then he remembers. 

He has no way of telling where Neal is, no way of finding him. Neal let him cut the anklet, and he could be anywhere. Without anyone to keep him in line or look out for him. For all Peter knows, he could be hurt, or in prison again, somewhere far away. God knows, the kid doesn't know how to stay out of trouble. He could be dead.

“Peter?” Elizabeth says. “Honey?”

He realizes that he’s stopped moving, that she’s stopped, too, holding his hand where it’s dropped to his side, looking up at him. Her face is filled with worry.

He feels like an idiot, frozen here like this, his heart pounding in sudden panic, but he can't tell her anything but the truth.

"Neal is out there somewhere," he says, "and I don't know where he is."

He has no right to expect that Elizabeth will understand, that she won't be upset with the line of his thoughts, but all she does is squeeze his fingers and give him that frowning smile, the one he's never seen on anyone else, the corners of her mouth turned down, but her eyes nothing but warmth.

"You had to let him go, Peter,” she says. “That was the agreement."

And it's what he agreed to, what Neal asked for, and of course those were the terms he had to keep. Even if the fear in his chest says cutting Neal loose could never be the right thing. 

“I know,” he says. “I know, I just…” He tilts his head back, blinks up at the stars as he pulls a breath in. “I can’t stop thinking I’m responsible for him.”

Elizabeth reaches up and lays a hand on his cheek, guides his face down to look into hers.

“If he wants you to be, he’ll come back,” she says. “He knows he can always come back.”

Peter nods, and tries to believe it.

* * *

In January, they go to a gallery opening, an exhibit of contemporary European painters organized by a friend of Elizabeth's. El disappears in the crowd, led away to talk to a potential client, and Peter is on his own, taking a swig of champagne as he turns away from the Damien Hirst on one wall towards the Luc Tuymans on the adjoining one, and comes face to face with a short man in large glasses.

He looks...it's stupid, but the first thing he does is look around the room, as if Neal should be here, too, just because Mozzie is, as if Peter would have been able not to notice. There's nothing, though. No sign of him and his hats and his glittering smile. Peter looks back at Mozzie, who appears to be deciding whether or not to run, calculating the odds on whether Neal not being here is reason enough for Peter to suddenly remember who he is and that he's wanted for questioning in connection with felonies in six different states and at least two European countries. Peter isn't sure whether to take the uncertainty as a compliment or an insult. After all, they've been through a few things together over the last four years. 

He takes pity, though, and says:

"Mr. Havisham. Fancy meeting you here.” He leans in a little, making sure Mozzie feels his full height above him. “I hope you're not here about the security issues?"

Mozzie pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose with the thumb of the hand holding his champagne glass, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Not any more," he says.

Peter smiles and claps him on the shoulder.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Mozzie glares at him, rubbing the spot where Peter’s hand landed.

“I still don’t get why Neal likes you.”

“Yes, you do,” Peter says. It’s automatic, an instinctive response from somewhere deep inside, but then he remembers that Neal isn’t his responsibility any more, and his smile falters. He shouldn’t make assumptions. “Have you heard from him?” he asks.

Mozzie takes a drink from his glass and looks at the Tuymans on the wall. It’s a large, featureless rabbit, a grayscale figure on a grayscale background, surrounded by grayscale four-leaf clovers.

“A few postcards from overseas,” he says. “Mostly Europe. You?”

Peter shakes his head. 

“Nothing.” He wonders how hard it would be for someone like Mozzie to forge a postmodern rabbit. Odds are Neal could do it in a lazy afternoon. “You think he’s keeping straight?”

“You think I’d tell you if he weren’t? Look, Peter…” Mozzie sighs, makes a sweeping gesture with his glass that is probably meant to illustrate something Peter isn’t getting, but mostly threatens to add champagne to the limited color scheme of the rabbit. “You clipped his wings. Maybe he just needs to know he can still fly.”

Peter isn’t sure what to say to that. He nods, and tries to pretend he’s fascinated by the four-leaf clovers.

* * *

It's a Saturday in early March when he comes home from a trip to the store for coffee and fresh tomatoes and finds them standing in the living room. Elizabeth and Neal. They turn as one as he enters, and Neal is closer to him, but he doesn't need a clear view of Elizabeth to see the barely checked excitement in her body, the smile she holds back with her teeth on her lower lip, waiting for how he'll react. 

"Hello, Peter," Neal says. 

He's standing there next to their coffee table, dressed in a white shirt and tie and one of his ridiculous waistcoats, almost as if he's never been gone. Except Peter knows him, he really does know him, and he can see the wariness at the corners of his smile and the anticipation in the way he holds his body. Nervous and eager and there. 

"Neal," Peter says, stepping into the room, setting the groceries down on the table. "How's the solo flying going?"

Neal looks confused for a second, but then his face clears as he catches on.

"Oh, you've been talking to Moz," he says. "About that..." He leans down and picks something up from the table, holds it out towards Peter. "I got you something."

It’s a slim, black box, like a jewelry case, and Peter gives him a questioning look. Neal’s eyes widen, blue and reassuring - _go on, take it_ \- and Peter does, snapping the lid of the case open.

There is a bracelet inside, large enough that it is clearly meant for a man, a complex golden link made up of several chains, intricate but not delicate. He knows enough that he can tell it was custom made, many of the parts that went into it probably antique. And he knows, God, his heart and body know what this is, even if his mind doesn't quite believe it.

"Not exactly my style," he says. The level voice he uses when he wants Neal to know he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Neal ducks his head and smiles, a quick flash of teeth that is somehow shy and self-congratulatory at the same time.

"Well, really it's for me," he says. "There's..." He takes a step forward, and, oh, Peter's missed this, the shape of him inside his personal space, the way all that undeniable charisma practically bends the air. Neal holds up his hand, shows his empty palm, a gesture of reassurance and surrender that he somehow never gave up even after Peter stopped treating him as a criminal, and reaches out to indicate the bracelet, his fingers hovering in the air above the rectangular clasp. "There's a GPS tracker in here. One that can't be turned off."

Peter has to close his eyes for a second, because it almost hurts, how much he wants this. How much he wants Neal to let him give him this. Crazy, over-enthusiastic Neal who never does anything half way.

He tilts his head and fixes Neal with his gaze. Because he has to make sure.

"You do know that there are people who consult for the FBI without submitting to 24-hour electronic surveillance?”

“Trust me, I can live without the US Marshals Service getting an update every time I cross the street.” And that’s a yes, to more than one question. “Peter,” Neal says. Open and honest and unshielded, and it’s almost impossible to know with Caffrey whether those things are real or counterfeit, but in this one thing at least, Peter is his own appraiser. He can tell. “Peter. You know what I’m asking.”

Peter bites his lip and nods, slow and considering. Takes the bracelet from its case, dropping the open box onto the table next to the grocery bag. Neal draws in a breath, soft and quick and hungry. Peter looks past him, looks to his wife. Neal turns to her, too.

“El?” 

She steps forward, smiling and serious, into the third corner of their triangle. He loves her so much his throat closes up with it.

“Yes,” she says. “You know this is a yes.”

“Elizabeth…” Neal starts, but she shakes her head, cutting him off, and her smile changes character. 

“If you really want to,” she says, “you can thank me later.”

Neal laughs, warm and breathless and still nervous, and he needs this now, needs Peter to see it through.

“Neal,” Peter says, and he’d almost forgotten how Neal responds to that tone, spinning towards him without hesitation, so goddamn eager to obey. He’d almost forgotten how much he likes it. He dangles the bracelet in his fingers, the low sun catching on gold when he holds it up. “You want this on or not?”

Neal rolls his eyes but lifts his right arm toward him, offers his wrist inside upward, the same way he’s always accepted Peter’s handcuffs, thin blue veins clearly visible beneath the skin.

Elizabeth lays her hand against the small of Neal’s back, support or encouragement or both.

Peter threads the bracelet under Neal’s wrist, slowly, because if he isn’t careful his hands will shake, and they can’t shake for this, not for this. When the ends of the chains are almost touching, he stops, and raises his eyes to Neal’s face.

“You’ve never done this yourself before,” Neal says.

“It was never going to stay on before,” Peter replies, and his heart turns over in his chest. 

But Neal nods, a brief, graceful inclination of his head, and Peter pushes the clasp closed. It makes a small, clear clicking sound, and Neal’s body shivers inside the locked circle. Peter reaches out for him, a hand around the back of his neck, and drags him in. As they kiss, his fingers slip beneath the links of the bracelet, tugging it tight against Neal’s wrist, making him gasp. 

His hold only feels safer when Elizabeth slides her fingers into his.


End file.
